


Come to California

by motherbearof3



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anger, Angst, Because he is my only Draco, But probably a happy ending because I can't not, Draco has left the country, F/M, He moved to California and is living a muggle life, Inspired by a song and TF's current appearance, Mutual Pining?, Pining, Post Hogwarts, Post Wizarding War, Pretend all the social media we have now existed then, This might really suck but I had to try
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2019-11-08 07:32:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17977031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motherbearof3/pseuds/motherbearof3
Summary: It's post wizarding war, Voldy is dead and everyone is relatively grown up. For reasons that will become clear later, Draco Malfoy has fled not just the Wizarding World, but Great Britain as well and has been living in the States enjoying the anonymity of social media.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by and the title comes from a Ron Pope song, "Come to California". It was giving me all the Dramione feels so I decided to see what happened if I gave in and wrote something. I'm thinking possibly three chapters, but we'll see where the muse takes us. Rated T and up because there's always the potential for lemons! Please let me know what you think. This is the first time I've written Dramione outside of my other little universe and it's a little different.

The sun dipped down into the Pacific and from where he sat on his deck, Draco could see the oranges and reds reflect off the water; which was still at the horizon, although he could hear gentle waves break at the shoreline. Because the ocean, like his thoughts, never completely stopped moving. Raking a hand through his messy pale blonde locks, which were almost as long as his father’s had been in his prime, he considered the evening ahead of him. He could go out to a bar, possibly get pulled on stage if one of his favorite haunts was having an open mic night, but otherwise sit there and drink, watching the people around him -- mostly couples, they always were -- and feel sorry for himself, until wobbly on his feet, call a car and come back home. But that would require putting on proper clothes. Well, as proper as he wore these days when he left the house. His mother would probably try and climb out of her portrait back home to hex his arse if she saw the way he dressed these days. He had to dress like a Muggle to live among them, so gone were the trousers with razor sharp pleats, crisply pressed button ups with glittering cufflinks at his wrists and shoes shined to perfection. When he went out it was in casual cotton trousers and a t-shirt with maybe a button up over it, but those button ups usually sported garish prints. Draco couldn’t remember the last time he’d brandished his wand to remove the wrinkles from them either. Straight from the dryer to the drawer they went, folded only because he could use magic behind the closed doors and curtains of his beach house. But that was if he was feeling motivated. Usually they went into a basket that he dug through to find an item. On his feet he’d wear battered trainers. Usually without socks. When he was home, he favored baggy athletic shorts, he’d learned they were called, and that’s all he was currently wearing. No shirt, no shoes, nothing under his shorts; which was what he preferred. Muggle men were far too hung up on pants, he’d decided. The variety of styles alone were mind boggling. But he found them all too constricting.

Propping a foot up on the railing of the deck, Draco lit a cigarette -- a tobacco one, although he had taken a liking to smoking a different kind since he moved here. Marijuana was legal in California, much like in the wizarding world. In fact, a lot of things about California reminded him of the world he’d run away from. Probably why he had ended up in the west coast state. He started out in New York City, since that was where his plane landed. Yes, he’d fled Great Britain on Muggle transportation. He was trying to disappear. And if he’d used a portkey, it could have been tracked by the Ministry. So he cashed in galleons for pounds and euros, swearing the goblin at Gringotts to secrecy, even though he didn’t have to. Goblins didn’t give a shit what wizards did as long as they kept their money in the bank, earned interest and paid their vault fees. Then he walked out of the Muggle side of the Leaky Cauldron and left that world behind. A few days in London, then a plane to the states. New York was too crowded and busy for him, although he liked the fact there was always a bar or nightclub open for distraction. He’d always favored train travel, and so he booked passage on one going across the country. It stopped it Chicago which he liked but, didn’t care for the smell of the lake. It didn’t smell anything like the Black Lake at Hogwarts. No, Lake Michigan stunk like fish as far as he was concerned. He preferred the tangy scent of the sea. Which was why he’d bought the beach house. Everyone thought he was some kind of celebrity, because of its location and cost, and also because he had become semi-reclusive.

Exhaling the smoke, Draco used non verbal, wandless magic to shape it into a dragon before it dissipated. It happened fast enough that even if anyone was watching -- they weren’t, his neighbors were far enough away they couldn’t see onto his deck -- they’d think it was a trick of the wind. No, tonight would be a stay at home night. Picking up his glass of Glenfiddich -- couldn’t get firewhisky here -- he took a drink before dropping the cigarette into what remained, enjoying the hiss as it was extinguished and returning it to the nearby table. Then he reached beside the chair he sat in and grasped the neck of his guitar. Pureblood witches and wizards were schooled in the fine arts, and the Malfoy family was no exception. He’d had piano lessons almost as soon as he could sit on the bench and reach the keys. Once he could read music, Draco taught himself to play a variety of instruments, but his first love was piano and then guitar. With a guitar one could play music anywhere. He had rolls of parchment of music he’d composed at Hogwarts. It was his refuge, his escape, when the Dark Lord returned and the wizarding world and his own life was turned upside down. One of the first things he purchased for his house in California had been a piano. Even before he had a bed. Night after sleepless night, he’d sat and played until his fingers ached. But it still couldn’t stop the ache in his heart. That ache was still there if he sat too still, let his thoughts become too quiet, or his mind completely sober.

When he’d turned on the utilities for the house, because it would have been a little suspicious if he didn’t have electricity, Draco discovered the internet. He could take or leave cable and the telly, although some of the late night sixty minute commercials for products no one needed and that he swore some had been created by a wizard, amused him from time to time. But the internet was a beautiful mysterious place where one could talk to millions of people and stay completely anonymous. He could flirt with or even have pseudo sex with a woman (or a man!) and never know their name or them his. He could pour his heart and soul out to people who responded with sympathy and suggestions; not criticism. For an instant ego boost, he could post his photos -- Muggle photography was a hobby he’d taken up -- on his Instagram account and within minutes have hundreds of likes. One night when it was open mic night at his favorite bar, he overheard someone say they had put another performer on the social media platform and that gave him an idea. Using his iphone -- another Muggle invention with which he was enthralled, even though he’d never made a call on it -- Draco would set it with the camera pointed at himself, although not positioned directly at his face just in case someone from his past life happened on it. Although if one particular person saw it and recognized him, he wouldn’t mind. Then he would record himself singing and playing his guitar. Some of the songs were original compositions, others were just him playing and singing songs by his favorite Muggle artists.

The videos were even more popular than the photos! He was even getting marriage proposals. Along with some more suggestive offers. Women said he could “strum” them any time. Among other things. Of course, he never responded to any of the comments. Tonight he settled the phone against his glass and began to play a song he’d been working on the past few nights when he couldn’t sleep and gave in to that ache in his chest and thought about the witch he was unable to forget.

 

_ Hotels and cigarettes _ __  
_ And empty bars where I just sit _ _  
_ __ And contemplate the things that I can't know

_ And all I ask of you are honest words _ __  
_ Simple truths _ _  
_ __ A place to lay my head when I get lost

_ Nothing here is right _ _  
_ _ Guess I'll shut my eyes _

_ Come to California 'cause I've been lonely for you _ __  
_ We can stay up all night just to watch the sunrise _ __  
_ Come to California _ __  
_ Nothing's right without you and even in the daylight _ _  
_ __ Well I can't see the sky

 

The sun had just set where Draco was singing but it was barely to the horizon in Great Britain when Hermione was awakened by an owl at her window. She looked at the clock beside her bed. Not even half five! Voldemort better be back for someone to be owling her this early, she thought. She had been up late the night before editing the book she was writing about her, Harry and Ron’s time on the run during the second wizarding war and didn’t put her quill down until after midnight, when the words began to run together on the parchment. She could have done it on her laptop, but she preferred the smell of parchment and ink. It reminded her of someone, although she would never admit it. Throwing back the blankets, she padded to the window to let the bird in. It was Ginny and Harry’s, she knew immediately, because it looked just like Hedwig, even though it was several generations removed from the original. The owl fluffed her feathers to express annoyance at being kept waiting, and helped herself to the bowl of dried spiders Hermione kept on the desk for just such occasions while the recipient of the parchment tied to her leg removed and read Ginny’s scrawl.

**_OMG, OMG, OMG!_ ** **_Draco Malfoy is on Instagram! I swear to Merlin it’s him!  
_ ** **_He’s on there live right now!_ ** **_SINGING!_ **

Hermione’s stomach lurched at the sight of the wizard’s name, and her heart began to pound. But she read the message one more time, crumpled it in her hand and tossed it into the unlit fireplace. Grabbing her wand, she pointed it and with a little more force than necessary, said, “ _ Incendio _ !” sending the parchment up in flames. Snatching up a piece of her own parchment, she scribbled

**_Not interested, Potter!  
_ ** **_He can choke on his words._ **

And sent the owl away. Then she closed the window with enough force to rattle the glass and climbed back in bed, pulling the covers over her head, intending to stay there the rest of the day. The week maybe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione gives into curiosity and investigates whether Ginny’s message was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting while I worked on this second chapter. I’m still feeling a little insecure about it, but as a fellow writer friend said to do, I kicked those insecurities in the d*ck, and here you go. 
> 
> I’ve created quite a bit of head canon in this chapter, I hope it makes sense to you as much as it did to me. Eventually, I’ll fill in some more blanks, but for now, please enjoy and let me know what you think.
> 
> None of these characters are mine, I’m just grateful to JKR for letting us play with them.

It was really only mid morning when Hermione finally crawled from her bed. At first she’d tossed and turned, moving so restlessly Crookshanks jumped down and stalked into the other room to find another place to curl up. When she finally fell asleep again after casting a spell to block out the sunlight that had began to filter in around her curtains, she continued to twist about in her sheets, dreaming disjointed dreams of memories from during the war, the final battle at the castle, and the days and weeks that followed. As soon as she opened her eyes, everything faded from recollection. She wasn’t sure if she was pleased or not. Removing the spell, she opened the curtains and bright sunlight filled the room. She grimaced. She wasn’t in the mood for a bright sunny day. Why couldn’t it be raining, she thought. A look in the mirror brought on another grimace. All the movement before and during sleep had turned her hair into something that rivaled the Bride of Frankenstein. Hardly a curl lay flat; some were sticking straight up from the top of her head. All she needed was the white stripe. She held her arms out in front of her and made guttural noises. Crookshanks, who had returned to the bedroom once she fell asleep, opened one eye to see if it was another animal making those noises and if he needed to be concerned. Determining it was just his mistress being a silly witch, he reclosed it and resumed his catnap.

Hermione reached for her brush then paused. No, that wouldn’t help. A deep conditioner was what she needed. She could put it on and then get back to editing while it worked its magic. Literally and figuratively. It was a conditioner with a potion twist that Pansy had come up with. After the war ended her former classmate figured out she had a knack for potions and had parlayed it into a beauty products business. Because the magic was subtle, she was able to market it to Muggles as well and the line was selling in both worlds almost faster than it could be made. Once the conditioner was slathered on her hair and the gooey mass twisted atop her head, Hermione made herself some tea and sat back down with the parchment she’d been working on the night before. But the feel of the paper and scent of the ink reminded her of the message she’d gotten earlier that morning. She shook her head. Carefully, so as not to dislodge the pile of hair on her head. She wasn’t going to think about that. She had work to do. Taking up her quill she found where she’d stopped. The book was done. She was just doing her first round of edits before sending it to Harry and Ron for them to review. Then the three of them would sit down together and go over the changes. She’d been opposed to the book at first, but it was Ron, amazingly enough, who convinced her they should write it. Or rather she should write it and they’d add things if they wanted. Kind of like how she’d done his homework for him, she said and he’d had the grace to look abashed. He told her that the wizarding world; those who survived the war and future generations needed to hear the real story. Not what the papers had reported. Not what the Ministry had released, with portions carefully blacked out. After careful consideration, she agreed. For one thing, there were too many people who believed the rumors that she and Harry had become lovers after Ron left. Ginny and Ron both. It wasn’t until Hermione sat them down and explained in blunt terms that nothing had ever happened between her and Harry and that she was still a virgin. Saving herself for the man she married. Whereupon Ron promptly proposed and she turned him down.

She and Ron _had_ gotten close while the three of them were living in that blasted tent. _And_ they kissed in the Chamber of Secrets. She loved him. But she wasn’t in love with him. There was no spark when they kissed or touched and while she could probably spend the rest of her life with him, have enjoyable sex and bear his children, there was no….magic between them. Not like between Harry and Ginny, who you could almost see a palpable aura of magic around and between them when they were near each other. Not like his parents, who, after more than 35 years of marriage still needed to touch one another when they were in the same room and could complete each other’s non verbal spells, their magic was so intertwined. When she explained it that way to him, Ron understood, and in another shocker, agreed with her. Now, they were good friends and he appeared to be well on his way to being a confirmed bachelor wizard. Hermione, on the other hand, yearned for the bond Harry and Ginny had.

She knew there was a wizard out there for her. She’d felt his magic before, twice in fact, protecting her, and it had shocked and thrilled her to know he was willing to risk his own life to protect hers. Once the war ended, she had expected, perhaps foolishly, he would approach her. But he didn’t. And when she finally worked up the nerve to bring it up with him, was rejected; making her feel like she’d imagined it all. So she pushed it, and him away when he came ‘round and tried to explain why he’d denied his actions initially, and tried to forget about it. But Ginny’s owl and the portion of the book she was editing brought it all flooding back. She gazed at her words on the parchment and felt pulled into the memory, as if she was looking into a pensieve…...

_The marble floor beneath her was hard and magically pinned to it in a crucifixion pose, Hermione was beginning to feel its coldness seep into her limbs. It countered, just a small bit, the burning pain she felt every time the black haired witch who stood over her wearing a sadistic smile, uttered the word “Crucio”. Each time, a scream rang in her ears and it wasn’t until after the fourth or fifth she realized it was her own voice. Just as the young witch was starting to hope she wouldn’t lose control of her bladder, Bellatrix stopped and dropped to her knees, drawing a dagger from a hidden pocket. For a moment, Hermione thought she was about to stab her with it. Later, she almost wished she had when she felt the tip of the cursed blade pierce the tender flesh on the inside of her forearm. This time, her screams only lasted until she passed out from the pain. But the crazy witch wielding the knife wasn’t about to let her enjoy the bliss of unconsciousness and revived her before resuming her work. Hermione couldn’t see what she was doing to her arm, having turned her head away; but could smell her hot breath, fetid from the teeth that had rotted away along with her mind in Azkaban, as she muttered, “Filthy Mudblood. Filthy Mudblood. Filthy Mudblood.”_

_When she was revived the second time, her eyes looked across the room and lighted on the figure of Draco Malfoy, standing beside his mother. Both looked equally horrified at the scene playing out before them, but paralyzed to intervene and Hermione had a fleeting thought that Narcissa Malfoy and the witch whose greasy black curls hung over her were sisters. Her brown eyes were drawn to the teenage wizard’s gray ones and as their gazes locked, suddenly some of the pain wracking her body began to fade. She could still feel every movement of the blade, but it was duller, as if the tip had suddenly gone blunt and realized, as his body began to tremble, Draco was using his magic to protect her and deflect some of what she was feeling onto himself. So did his mother, and put a hand on his shoulder as if to stop him, but he shook her off. This was powerful magic and Hermione could feel it surround her but at the same time, the Brightest Witch of Her Age was trying to understand how it worked, and more importantly, why a wizard who had hated her since they were First Years because of her blood status and who had taken the Dark Mark and managed to avoid killing their beloved headmaster only because Snape beat him to it, was protecting her. She had felt protective spells before and cast a few of her own, but this was different. There was a different feel to it. It wasn’t just surrounding her, it was co-mingling with her own magic. She didn’t get a chance to ponder it further and Draco was saved from having to try and continue it when Bellatrix noticed the sword hanging from the belt of the snatcher and all hell broke loose._

_The second time it happened was during the final battle at the castle. Harry had miraculously not been dead in Hagrid’s arms after all and was busy trying to finally end it with Voldemort, but that hadn’t stopped his followers from killing as many of the opposition as possible in the meantime. Hermione was backed into a corner of rubble by two Death Eaters, exhausted both physically and magically and wondering if she should just give up when the spell one of the Death Eaters cast bounced back at him, knocking him unconscious.  “Run, Granger,” she heard in her head, rather than actually aloud. “I can’t hold them off much longer.” For a split second she thought it was Ron’s magic, but then recognized the voice in her head when it spoke a second time. “RUN, dammit!” It was Draco. Then she felt the same protective magic surrounding her as she had in the manor. She dragged herself to her feet and dashed for the doors of the castle._

Hermione could still remember what it felt like to be blanketed by Draco’s magic. There was both a gentleness and a strength to it that made her feel safe and protected. It was like being held a loving embrace but not like being hugged by her father or Harry or Ron. There was a sexual undertone to it that made her body and magic tingle. She and Draco had never actually touched each other, unless you counted her fist making contact with his nose. And when she allowed herself to remember what his magic felt like, she wondered what it would be like. But those occasions were rare. It had to be Ginny’s owl that triggered her dreams and all this reminiscing. Hermione might have continued thinking about it if the alarm on her phone hadn’t gone off, reminding her it was time to rinse Pansy’s conditioner from her hair. Maybe it was the lack or sleep or that she was feeling relaxed from the hot shower, but Hermione started wondering where Malfoy was and why on earth he was putting videos of himself on Muggle social media and once her hair was dry, she dressed and made her way to her favorite cafe in London that had free wifi. Unlike Harry and Ginny, who had somehow managed to get internet to work at Grimmauld Place, possibly because it was in London; Hermione’s flat was right on a border between magical and Muggle neighborhoods and she hadn’t tried to make it work, opting to go to this cafe when she needed to be online. She’d become a regular and the owner, seeing her come in, would always make her favorite latte and deliver it to her table within minutes. It was always the same table too. Tucked into a corner in the back where she had full view of the restaurant. A defense mechanism, no doubt, leftover from the war.

Once she was settled with her latte, Hermione logged in to the internet service. Unlike Ginny, she did not have social media accounts. When she went online it was for research purposes or to order inventory for her store. Taking a sip of her drink, she checked her email. Ginny had covered all her bases. Not only had she sent Hermione the owl, she’d emailed her with a link to the Instagram account she believed to belong to the Malfoy heir. The ID was BadFaith07. Sounded like a grunge band to her. But as she waited for the page to load, something tickled Hermione’s brain. Bad faith. Malfoy was a French surname that translated to bad faith. And 07 was Draco’s Quidditch number when he played Seeker opposite Harry. The icon next to the ID was a photo of a beach sunset. The last time she’d seen the sun set over water was when the Golden Trio had been hunting horcruxes.  

Thinking about how nice it would be to sit on the sand and let the sun warm her, she plugged earbuds into the computer and inserted them in her ears. Then Hermione clicked on the icon that would show her the video that had been previously recorded live and the man began to sing as he strummed a guitar. She sat up in her seat with a start, jostling the table and making her latte slosh over the sides of the cup into its saucer. But she didn’t notice. Her attention was focused on the screen in front of her. The camera was angled and he sat so he was in a slight profile and wore a baseball cap. It could have been any blonde man. But it was the voice that filled her ears that made her catch her breath. She’d know that timbre anywhere. His accent, the slight raspiness from whatever alcohol was in his glass she could see on the table. Ginny was right. For whatever reason, Draco Malfoy was singing on the internet.

Hermione listened all the way through the video once, then a second time, scrutinizing him more closely, taking in his surroundings, his clothes -- or lack thereof, she thought with a slight increase in her pulse at the sight of his bare chest -- and had just begun a third viewing to properly listen to the song when a notification popped up that BadFaith07 was live. She looked at her watch. If he really was in California, which is what the song and his account photos -- which she shamelessly poured over after the second viewing of the video -- led her to believe, then it was about 3:30 a.m. there. Hermione clicked and the live stream appeared on screen. Her hand flew to her mouth. He was inside a room this time, standing with his guitar strapped to his chest and wearing wrinkled trousers -- where they _pale pink_? -- and a white button up shirt embroidered with -- she leaned closer to the laptop -- tiny hearts. Gone was the ball cap and his trademark Malfoy platinum locks were clearly visible. His hair had been pulled back from his face in a messy man bun but half of it had come free and hung over one ear. His face was flushed and he looked like he’d been drinking. She leaned back in the chair, not sure which shocked her more. His appearance or the song he was singing. He strummed the instrument almost angrily as he sang:

 

_I'm just not sure whether my heart is working_   
_And yours is beating double time_   
_Deep down you know I ain't even worth it_ _  
__It's not enough, babe, all I do is make you cry_

_Like ooh whoa, ooh whoa_   
_I know, I do this every time_   
_Like ooh whoa, I know_ _  
__That I just got to say what's on my mind_

_You deserve better, better, better than me_   
_Might be what you want, but I'm not what you need_   
_You're better, better than you even realize_   
_You deserve better, better, better than me_   
_Might be what you want, but I want you to see_ _  
__You're better off without me in your life_

_And I hope you find somebody else_   
_That'll love you like nobody else_   
_And I hope he gives you something real, oh, I love you still_ _  
__But you deserve better, better, better, better_

_Give up on me, 'cause, babe, I'm hopeless_   
_The more it hurts, the more it's right_   
_You know I loved, I just never showed you_ _  
__It'll be too late when you're with some other guy_

_Like ooh whoa, ooh whoa_   
_I know, I do this every time_   
_Like ooh whoa, I know_ _  
__That I just got to say what's on my mind_

_You deserve better, better, better than me_   
_Might be what you want, but I'm not what you need_   
_You're better, better than you even realize_   
_You deserve better, better, better than me_   
_Might be what you want, but I want you to see_ _  
__You're better off without me in your life_

_And I hope you find somebody else_   
_That'll love you like nobody else_   
_And I hope he gives you something real, oh, I love you still_ _  
__But you deserve better, better, better, better_

 

By the time he finished the song, his initial temper had diminished and he was just melancholy, singing as if his heart was broken. Hermione had tears running down her face when he signed off with a small crooked smile and the words, “Peace lovers”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song he’s singing this time is “You Deserve Better” by James Arthur. I heard an acoustic version of it yesterday and it inspired me to finish this chapter. I could just see Draco, or another certain someone who likes to play his guitar on Instagram playing this.


End file.
